


the sorrows your heart's known

by beccasaur



Category: Marvel
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-18
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-19 22:28:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1486417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beccasaur/pseuds/beccasaur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Killing is easy.</p>
<p>Except when it's not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the sorrows your heart's known

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt "dying". Originally posted [here](http://tyrelled.tumblr.com/post/83142298043/43-dying-bucky-nat-gimme-all-the-feels-make-me-hurt) on Tumblr.

Killing is easy.

\---

She kills without question. She follows her orders, she _enjoys_ it.

It is an art form like none other, and she is the grand master. She paints in red – neat, precise strokes on a crisp background of snow. It follows in her wake, staining her hands forever; she doesn't care. She would be grateful for that kind of permanence.

The first time she killed, the target's face haunted her for weeks. Whenever she closed her eyes, she could see him there. Now, she doesn't have that trouble—now, she feels nothing when she kills save for satisfaction.

It's easy. This is what she's good at, what she was born to do. She has, after all, a very specific skill set.

She doesn't care who she uses it on; there's no such thing as an innocent person.

Little girls with no childhoods will grow up with whispers of the Black Widow, just as she grew up with talk of the Winter Soldier. They will know what she has done, the empires she has toppled.

One man in the right place at the right time can be better than an army.

She is that man.

She is the best, because she learned from the best.

And because they're the best, they forget that they're not invincible. They forget that the Kremlin has eyes everywhere, that no matter how many windows they climb through, there's always a chance they will be seen. All it takes is one lingering kiss goodbye, one too-familiar term of address.

One stupid move.

She doesn't know how they are found out; the information is not volunteered, and she's too well-trained to ask.

Too well-trained to fight against what is done to her next. She's never fought it; it's hell, it hurts more than anything she's ever experienced (ever will experience), but she lets them play with her mind and put in what they think she needs.

(She wonders if that obedience has been implanted, too.)

They don't take her memories. Not this time. They don't even take her awareness that her mind is not her own; all they do is give her a new mission.

One she cannot refuse.

It's almost ironic: more than she wanted the Winter Soldier, she wanted to _be_ him.

She wanted that power, that single-minded obsession with the mission, never straying. She wanted to be that good.

—Now she is.

When the mission is done, when they take him from her, strapping her into the chair and tearing him from her mind in the most painful way possible, she won't remember this. She won't remember the Black Widow's greatest partner, their (not so) secret rendezvous after missions or kisses in the snow.

He will be the man who taught her, and nothing more.

She won't remember killing him.

Good; she doesn't want to do this.

She doesn't love him—love is for children, and she has never been a child. She doesn't even know what the word means.

She doesn't love him, but she thinks she could.

Maybe it's that which makes her kiss him one last time, makes her pull him close and melt against him. It's regret driving her; she has no choice in this, she must complete her mission no matter what it takes from her, but she doesn't have to relish in it, either.

For the first time in a very long time, she doesn't want to kill.

And he knows. He knows something is wrong, from the feeling in her kiss to the way she buries her face against his neck one last time, inhaling his scent and committing it to memory – for as long as she's allowed to keep it, anyway. His hand finds its way into her hair, stroking. Soothing.

She doesn't deserve that. Not with what she's about to do.

Her hand shakes as she raises her gun. He doesn't look surprised, and his eyes are gentle. This would be easier if he were scared, if he hated her for this.

She is not a willing participant, here, but it is the mission.

“It's okay,” he says, and takes hold of the gun, bringing it to his temple. “It's okay, Natalia. I know you have to.”

With his other hand, he reaches out, brushing tears from her cheeks with his thumb. She closes her eyes and inhales—when she opens them again, her hand is steady.

“Prosti menya,” she replies, voice thick. The words taste bitter in her mouth.

I'm sorry.

_I'm sorry._

Please forgive me.

The Red Room always wins.

\---

Killing is easy.

Except when it's not.


End file.
